


Étoile

by JamiAlexandra7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Femlock, Fluff, Insecure Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pet Names, Sherlock Speaks French, Unilock, balletlock, especially when she's sleepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamiAlexandra7/pseuds/JamiAlexandra7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Étoile: leading ballet dancer (male or female) in a company</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Danseur Étoile: the highest rank a dancer can reach at the Paris Opera Ballet</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock pushes herself too hard in the weeks running up to an important dance competition. Jo takes care of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Étoile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmielo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmielo/gifts).



> Thanks to Aleisha, Helen, and Bee for proofreading and cheering me on!

Sherlock Holmes, twenty, had been rehearsing for approximately six and a half hours and was, at this point, pushing herself far past the limit of even her (in Jo's opinion) ridiculous endurance. She had a competition in five weeks, an audition for the Royal Ballet Company in ten, and an interview/audition with the English National Ballet in twelve. Jo had barely seen her for the last couple of weeks despite sharing a flat (and a bed) and was, frankly, starting to worry.

Today, though, was the last straw. Sherlock had been in the studio nearly constantly for the past week and a half without a single day off, and when Jo had seen her that morning she'd looked thinner than usual, with dark circles under her eyes and shaking hands. That had been at five that morning when Sherlock had been banging around the flat getting her things together and Jo had shuffled out of bed to make her a slice of toast with peanut butter and honey - the only thing Sherlock would consent to eat an hour or less before dancing, no matter what time of day it was.

"Gorgeous as usual, love, but even I can tell your form is off."

Sherlock startled and whirled around, collapsing out of the arabesque she'd been holding -- well, wobbling in, really -- and landing on her bum with an annoyed huff. "Well, it wouldn't have been if you hadn't been distracting me. What are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you, too," Jo said wryly. She kicked off her street shoes and padded across the studio to sit in front of Sherlock. "I missed you, and I had the day off, and I know you haven't been eating lunch while you've been rehearsing so much, so I brought you lunch. Which you will eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Sherlock, you had a single piece of toast this morning and it's nearly noon. You were shaking like a leaf just now and could barely hold yourself _en pointe_. You need to eat."

Sherlock glared half-heartedly at her but took the thermos and sandwich Jo offered her. "Thank you."

"Roll over and I'll work your calves for you. You’ve been working yourself to death the last few weeks, and I can see how tense your legs are from here. You're going to injure yourself, love.”

"They're fine, Jo. I don't have time to sit around and let you mollycoddle me. I need to practice."

"No, you need to eat, and rest for an hour or so. I know you - you probably haven't even taken so much as a ten minute water break today. So, _mademoiselle,_ let me massage your legs while you eat or I'll get Mrs. Hudson to confiscate your studio keys."

Jo only ever called Sherlock _mademoiselle_ when she thought she wasn't taking care of herself well enough; that was what her ballet instructor called her and Sherlock always, always listened to Madame Deschamps. (Jo always listened to her, too, for that matter. The woman was intimidating.) It was a more lighthearted way to get Sherlock's attention, to say, "you're worrying me, please take better care of yourself," without actually having to say it.

Sherlock huffed and pretended to sulk, but obediently pulled off her pointe shoes and rolled over to let Jo massage the muscles in her calves. After a few moments of picking at her sandwich and pretending not to enjoy the attention, she lay her head down on her arms and closed her eyes, visibly relaxing. "Would you mind doing my feet, too?" she asked, almost shyly. "They're absolutely _killing_ me."

Jo smiled and leaned down to press a kiss to the back of Sherlock's knee. "Of course, love. I'll sort out your legs for now, and take care of your poor feet when we get home."

 _That_ got Sherlock’s attention. "What do you mean, when we get home? I need to stay and practice. It's bad enough that I'm taking such a long break now, I can't take the rest of the day!"

"You can, and you will, Sherlock," Jo responded, her tone leaving no room for argument. "How many hours have you danced this week, hm?"

“What day is it?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Approximately forty-two hours, then. It would have been longer, but there was a beginner’s class last night and I couldn’t use the studio.”

"And you've been going to your regular classes and rehearsals too, haven't you?"

Sherlock hesitated, having figured out exactly where Jo was going with this line of questioning and not liking it -- mostly because she knew she was right. "...Yes, obviously."

"I thought so. So you've danced more than forty-two hours this week, haven't you?"

"Ah... yes, technically."

“And _that_ is exactly why we’re going home once you’ve finished your sandwich,” Jo informed her, rolling her eyes, “because I also know for a fact that you didn’t count Sunday, and you were here all day.”

Sherlock looked mutinous, but the biscuit Jo had brought her and half of the sandwich had disappeared while they were bickering, so Jo called it a victory.

"Fine," Sherlock agreed eventually, "I suppose taking the afternoon off would be acceptable."

"Thank you." Jo leaned down again and kissed the back of the other knee. "Besides, I've missed you, it'll be nice to have an afternoon to just laze around the flat."

They fell silent and Jo continued to work the knots out of the muscles in Sherlock's calves. Her thighs would be stiff and sore too, she knew, but that type of massage very rarely stayed fit for public places and besides, Jo wanted to get her home and tucked in bed sooner rather than later.

After a little while, Sherlock's sleepy voice broke the silence. “J'n'veux pas danser la _Danse de la Fée Dragée_. Tout le monde la connait, c’est ennuyeuse.”

“Sherlock,” Jo said, patiently, her voice soft with fond amusement, “you know I don’t speak French.” She had been working at the muscles in Sherlock’s legs for nearly twenty minutes and she had, apparently, started to doze off.

Sherlock had spent much of her childhood in France, living with her _grand-mère,_ and still occasionally forgot to speak English (which was technically her second language) when she was drunk or very tired. It would be endearing, Jo thought, if it didn't make it difficult to understand her at times. Johanna Watson was good at many things, but languages were not one of them.

“J'veux faire quelque chose d’interessant,” Sherlock complained, obviously still mostly asleep. Jo shifted Sherlock’s legs out of her lap and scooted around to sit by her head instead.

“Sherlock, wake up so I can get you home.”

“J’suis… mmm, I’m awake...”

“No, you’re not. Come on, love.” Jo helped her sit up, rubbing her back to wake her up a bit.

"J'veux pas..." Sherlock curled into Jo, burying her face in her neck.

"Yeah, I know, you're worn out. Let's go home."

" _Non._ "

"Yep. Let's go, up you get." Jo dragged Sherlock to her feet and half-carried her to where her street shoes and dance bag lay. She let go to shove the pointe shoes in the bag, which she slung over her shoulder, and Sherlock swayed dangerously. Jo frowned and steadied her. "Sherlock, you need to put your street shoes on, love, come on."

Sherlock made a disgruntled sound, but seemed to wake up enough to stuff her feet unceremoniously into her shoes. "You're a terrible bully, did you know?"

"Oh yeah," Jo agreed sarcastically, steering Sherlock out of the studio and onto the pavement to hail a cab. "I'm just awful, making sure you eat and rest and take care of yourself."

Sherlock glared at her as they bundled themselves into the backseat, but the effect was ruined when she yawned and curled up against Jo's shoulder. She fell asleep almost instantly and stayed that way until they were nearly home.

“I do hate Tchaikovsky, though,” Sherlock said, apropos of nothing, as they got out of the cab in front of 221 Baker Street. The cold air outside seemed to have woken her up a bit, which was good -- it meant that Jo would be more likely to be able to get her to eat a bit more.

“No, you don’t. You dragged me to _The Sleeping Beauty_ for your birthday last year, and were on the edge of your seat the whole time. I'm not even sure you _breathed_ ," Jo replied, smiling fondly at the memory of how excited Sherlock had been.

Sherlock looked like she wanted to protest, but before she got the chance they were upstairs and Mrs. Hudson -- who, it seemed, had let herself into the flat again -- was fluttering out from the kitchen and fussing at them.

“Oh! Johanna, dear, I wasn’t expecting you home. I made a pot of soup, I thought you and Sherlock might like it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Jo said gratefully, taking the pot from her and setting it on the counter. "Did you want to stay and eat with us?"

"Oh, no thank you, dear, I'm going for lunch with Mrs. Turner today."

"Right. Have fun, then."

“Is the soup -- ?”

“Shut up, Sherlock, one bowl of soup isn’t going to hurt you, no matter how many calories are in it.” It wasn't often that Sherlock got fussy about what she would and wouldn't eat to keep from gaining weight -- she had an absolutely enormous sweet tooth -- but it happened occasionally before a competition. Jo suspected that it was nerves, but didn't dare bring it up.

“But I --?”

“No. Sit. Eat some soup, please, and then I'll rub your feet for you, and then we're going to bed for a couple of hours because you need to rest."

"I'll just leave you girls to it, then," Mrs. Hudson put in awkwardly, seeing herself out of the flat.

"I suppose I could eat a little bit," Sherlock conceded, sitting down at the table and watching as Jo filled two bowls.

"Thank you." Jo kissed her cheek as she set a bowl of soup in front of her, then sat down and tucked into her own portion.

The soup was, of course, delicious, and Sherlock managed to eat most of a bowl before complaining that she wasn't hungry. Jo decided to take what she could get and tidied away the dishes and leftovers while Sherlock stretched out on the sofa.

By the time Jo had finished tidying the kitchen, Sherlock had curled up into a little ball on the couch and seemed to have nodded off again. It had been far too long since Jo had seen her look as calm as she did then. Between rehearsals, technique classes, and studying chemistry part-time so she could continue her ridiculous kitchen experiments, Sherlock was overworking herself and the longer Jo looked at her, the more obvious it was. She'd noticed that Sherlock was unusually thin and tired looking that morning, but she also had more bruises than usual, her hair was frizzy and unkempt, and her fingernails were bitten almost down to the quick.

Sherlock stirred, interrupting Jo's thoughts. "You're staring at me."

"You're worrying me."

"You worry too much. I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Jo sat next to Sherlock's hip on the sofa and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "You're overworking yourself, sweetheart."

"A bit, maybe," Sherlock admitted. "But Irene Adler is in my category again this year, and she beat me by half a point last year because the judges liked her music better, and --"

"I know, love, and I know how important this competition is to you, but you've got to take better care of yourself. You'll burn yourself out."

"I suppose you're right..."

Jo smirked. "Can I get that in writing?" she asked.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grumbled.

Jo laughed and leaned down to kiss her, sliding one hand behind her head to tilt her face up. Sherlock made a soft, pleased sound, clinging to the front of  Jo’s jumper. They kissed for a few long minutes, soft and slow and sweet. Sherlock's arms twined around Jo's shoulders, pulling her closer, and Jo's free hand stroked soothingly up and down Sherlock's side. Eventually, Sherlock broke the kiss and tucked her face into Jo's shoulder.

"Okay, sweetheart?"

"My feet hurt," Sherlock pouted, "it's distracting." She pulled her knees up -- as much as she could with Jo practically on top of her -- and, petulantly, let them flop down again.

Jo giggled and kissed her cheek. "I suppose I did promise you a foot rub, didn't I?"

"Yes." A pause. "If you don't mind, that is."

"Of course not." Jo kissed her cheek again and shifted to sit at the opposite end of the sofa, pulling Sherlock's feet into her lap.

The next few minutes were quiet as Jo gently stretched and manipulated Sherlock's feet, the only sound the little noises of pain and pleasure Sherlock made as Jo massaged overworked muscles.

"You're getting bruises and blisters again, love. You need new toe pads."

"Mmm. Remind me tomorrow and I'll change them before I go to the studio."

"Sure, love. The last thing you need is another blood blister under your nail." She bent her head to press a kiss to the bit of Sherlock's foot she was currently digging her thumb into, but pulled back quickly. "Ugh. I didn't notice earlier, but your feel smell _awful._ "

"Really, Johanna, does that surprise you? It's all over your hands now, too, I would imagine." Sherlock's voice was haughty and superior, but Jo could tell that she was more than a little embarrassed and trying to cover it.

"Yes, all right, Miss Thing." Jo dragged her thumbnail up the arch of Sherlock's foot, tickling, making her squirm and giggle. "You need a shower, love."

"Probably... can't it wait? I thought we were going to bed..." Sherlock asked, quietly. She almost sounded disappointed.

"We will, sweetheart. You definitely need a long sleep in a real bed. But, frankly, you stink. You need a shower."

"Come with me?"

"Of course. I’ll wash your hair for you, if you like." Jo stood up and offered her hand to Sherlock, who groaned as her feet hit the floor.

A few minutes later -- after Sherlock had hobbled to the bathroom on sore feet and achy legs, leaning heavily on Jo -- the girls were surrounded by thick steam, pressed close together in the not-quite-big enough stall, talking quietly while Jo washed Sherlock's hair. Sherlock had her eyes closed and her head tilted forward towards Jo, trusting and pliant.

"I've missed you," Jo admitted. "We sleep in the same bed every night, but I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, peeking one eye open and smiling apologetically at her.

"I know dancing is important to you, and I'm so proud of you for working so hard while balancing school and everything else, but I'm worried about you, sweetheart. I know I've said it a million times, but you're working yourself too hard."

Sherlock tipped her head back so she could speak and rinse her hair without getting shampoo and water in her mouth. "I know, Jo, I've missed you, too. And I don't mean to worry you. I just..."

"You just what, love?"

"I want to be _good_ \-- I want to be the _best_ , and most dancers who go pro are already with a company by the time they're twenty, and I'm still with a local school -- I've been with the same studio since I was four, and Mummy and Mycroft and even Dad say that I should focus on school and choose a career and think about my future -- but I _am,_ I want to _dance,_ but there's so much to learn and so many different styles and techniques that I have to know, and the competition scene is changing so that you have to have more and more difficult tricks to have any chance at placing..." Sherlock broke off, gasping a little and pretending that the moisture on her cheeks was entirely from the shower.

Jo pulled her close and hugged her, stroking a hand up and down her back soothingly. "Shh, bee, you're alright. I think you're a little stressed about the auditions and the competition. You're an incredible dancer, and you're going to be amazing. You have time, and the talent, and the skills to work it out. Okay?"

Sherlock was quiet, her breathing still a bit irregular. "Jo?" she asked, after a minute or two.

"Yeah, bee?"

"What if I don't get in?"

Jo kissed the side of her head and hugged her tighter. "Well, then, you keep practicing and training, and keep studying Chemistry -- I know you love it, and you're nearly halfway through your degree now -- and then you audition again next year."

Sherlock didn't reply, just pressed her face into Jo's neck and made a small, unhappy noise. "Can we go to bed now, please?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Got all the conditioner out of your hair?"

"Mhm."

"All right, then." Jo turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself before turning back to her girlfriend. Jo draped one towel around Sherlock's shoulders, then used another to pat some of the water from her nearly-waist-length-hair. Once it stopped dripping, Jo used a third towel to gently dry the rest of her, pressing chaste little kisses to whichever bits of skin were close enough.

"You know, I can dry myself off," Sherlock commented, sounding content and relaxed despite her protests.

"Yes, I know you can. But I like taking care of you. And besides," Jo stopped to kiss Sherlock's sharp hipbone, "you deserve to be spoiled every once in awhile."

Sherlock blushed prettily and blinked at her, looking surprised and pleased. She was silent for a moment, then smiled softly. "Thank you. I... it's nice, to be taken care of like this. I, um, appreciate it."

Jo smiled and rocked up on her toes to kiss her softly. "You're welcome, love. Do you want me to braid your hair for you before we go to bed?"

"Yes, please."

"Alright. Go and put your pyjamas on, I'll meet you in the bedroom in a couple of minutes."

Sherlock nodded, her cheeks flushed pink, and padded naked out of the bathroom. Jo rolled her eyes -- did she _have_ to leave her wet towels on the floor? -- but picked them up and hung them over the towel rack.

Jo dried out the shower with her own towel and hung it over the rack with Sherlock's, then brushed her teeth and headed through to the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed wearing an old, worn tank top and soft flannel pyjama bottoms, brushing out her long, dark hair. Despite the bright midday sun outside the room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn nearly shut against the light. Sitting there, Sherlock looked soft and warm and beautifully _real_ , with no makeup or fancy costumes or pretense, and Jo wished not for the first time for a proper camera to capture the moment.

"You're staring at me, again." Sherlock remarked without looking up from the knot she was untangling.

"Hmm, yes, I am. Because you're gorgeous."

Sherlock looked up at her, blushing. "You really think so?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart. Especially when you blush. You turn the prettiest shade of pink." Jo went over to the bed and cupped Sherlock's face gently in both of her hands, then pressed quick, soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and finally her mouth.

Sherlock broke the kiss -- a terrible habit of hers, in Jo's opinion -- resting their foreheads together and skimming her hands down Jo's waist to rest on her bare hips. "Go put pyjama's on, and then come to bed, please?"

"I'm sorry," Jo said, smirking at her, "am I distracting you?"

Sherlock was blushing again and wouldn't quite meet Jo's eyes. "Yes, you are. You're lovely and distracting and I've missed you, but I'm exhausted and want to go to bed. Please? Can we just go to bed?"

"Of course, sweetheart." Jo kissed her again, hard and quick and full of promise for _later_ , then pecked her on the forehead and disengaged herself gently to find pyjamas, ending up in just pants and an old cotton t-shirt.

"You still want me to do your hair for you?"

"Yes, please. It helps me sleep, and I don't really want to go to bed with it wet, even if it's just for a nap." Sherlock sat on a pillow on the floor, between Jo's knees, while Jo brushed through her hair again, sorting it into neat sections to braid. She had never gotten the hang of braiding her own hair, but her short, capable fingers made quick work of Sherlock's curls, even on days when they were being particularly unruly.

The two sat in comfortable silence until Jo finished the braid. She pressed her lips to the crown of Sherlock's head as she looped a hair elastic around the end. "There. Gorgeous."

"Thank you." Sherlock got to her feet and stretched, her hands above her head and her back arched as far as it would go, her spine clicking as the vertebrae realigned themselves.

She put the pillow she'd been sitting on back at the head of the bed, then wriggled under the covers, dislodging the tucked-in sheet as little as possible. Jo slid in next to her, and Sherlock immediately snuggled up close to her, tucking her head under Jo's chin.

Jo's arms wrapped around her waist and squeezed gently. "Do you still want to watch a movie, or do you just want to go to sleep?"

“I don’t think I could stay awake through a whole movie, at this point.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept for a while.”

“I need t’study for Organic Chem, later,” Sherlock informed her, already sounding mostly asleep.

“Your midterm isn’t for another week and you already know all the material. There’ll be plenty of time after you wake up.”

“And I need to.. To check on the _culture bactérienne, aussi…_ ”

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Jo told her, cutting off Sherlock’s increasingly sleepy mumbling. “It’s still early, you can do homework all afternoon if you want. Just rest for now.”

Sherlock hummed what sounded like an agreement and tucked herself impossibly closer to Jo. The last little bit of tension drained out of her and her breathing softened into a slow, even rhythm. She was sound asleep within minutes.

*****

Sherlock's competition solo was stunning, as usual. She'd eventually scrapped _The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy_ in favour of _A Swan is Born,_ Clint Mansell's darker, angrier take on Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_. It was the polar opposite of her original choreography, which had left Mme Deschamps scrambling to help her put together a new routine in just over four weeks.

The day of the competition, Sherlock had commanded attention onstage in a sequined black leotard, black platter tutu, and a tight, black mesh veil over her face. Her pointe shoes had been dyed black for the occasion, and she wore long, elegant black gloves with sharp feathers along the outside edge. The new choreography was as harsh as it was beautiful, all dramatic leaps, sharp, precise movements, and graceful, sensual transitions. She was hauntingly beautiful, ethereal under the harsh stage lights. The audience adored her.

The two hours between her performance and the adjudication were horrible. Sherlock sulked around the dressing room, in the cafeteria, and in the audience with Jo, critiquing the other dancers under her breath and stretching and flexing her feet restlessly.  

"Would you please sit still?" Jo’s hand landed on Sherlock’s knee after half an hour of constant shifting. "You're making me nervous."

" _I'm_ making _you_ nervous? What about _me_? You're not the one who's waiting to be judged!"

"You've already danced, love. Whatever happens, happens, yeah?"

"Easy for you to say," Sherlock pouted, sinking lower in her seat and crossing her arms.

Jo laughed and kissed the side of her head, more than used to her girlfriend's dramatics. "Well, it's not long now until the adjudication. Why don't you head backstage? See if Molly's around?"

"I want a proper kiss, first."

"Of course, love." Jo cupped her hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and kissed her warmly, nipping at her bottom lip before pulling away. "Go on, then. I'll see you after."

"I'll meet you in the dressing rooms after?"

"Yep."

Sherlock nodded and left, picking her way through the audience. Jo watched her go, _absolutely not_ staring at Sherlock's arse in her leotard. Nope.

***

"There you are, Sherlock! Where'd you run off to, then?" Molly asked when Sherlock caught up to her backstage.

Sherlock blushed, annoyed at herself for being embarrassed. "To watch," she responded shortly.

"You mean to sit with Jo," Molly teased.

"…yes."

Molly smirked, but let it go. "Well, I was looking for you, anyway, they want the dancers to start gathering for adjudication."

"It's all solos this morning, how much 'gathering' do we really need to do?"

"They just want everyone backstage, Sherlock, don't be difficult."

Sherlock pouted, but followed Molly over to the stage to wait with the other soloists. The last performer had just finished and the rest of the dancers were being slowly shepherded onto the stage to sit under the hot, bright lights while the judges finished calculated the scores.

Eventually the medals, scholarships, and other awards were announced, but by then Sherlock had tuned them out, searching the crowed for Jo and trying to deduce the other spectators through the stage lights.

She was trying to figure out, exactly, how long the young person sitting in the second row had known they were pregnant when Molly suddenly started yelling her name and shaking her. "You won! Sherlock! You got platinum!"

Sherlock scrambled awkwardly to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest, and picked her way across the crowded stage to  where the announcer was waiting with a medal and a small plaque. She hadn't even heard the announcer say her name, let alone the specific award she was being given -- what was the plaque for? -- but curtsied gracefully to the audience and the adjudicators anyway, searching the crowd for Jo. Perhaps it was the lights, but she couldn't see her, and her smile faltered a bit as she turned to go back to where Molly was still sitting, beaming at her.

"Congratulations!" Molly squealed, throwing her arms around her and squeezing. "You were amazing!"

Sherlock hugged her back, laughing. "Thank you!" Now that she'd had a minute to process it -- and Molly's infectious excitement to help her along -- she _was_ truly shocked and thrilled to have placed so high. Having thrown her solo together in just over a month, she hadn't been expecting to do that well, especially with her less traditional music choice. But the plaque sitting in her lap read _Highest Overall_ and the medal hanging around her neck was the silvery-white colour of imitation platinum, so somehow she must have pulled it off.

The adjudication ended and Sherlock allowed Molly to drag her through the swarm of dancers to the dressing room, her sulky, sour mood from before dissolving rapidly as the reality of what had happened in the last few minutes registered. _She had done it._ She’d beaten Adler -- won the category, in fact -- _and_ had won the highest achievement award for soloists, _and_ she was going to the Dance Off, which was the highest round of that weekend’s competition.

She felt a little as if she was still on the stage performing: confident, untouchable, and a tiny bit light-headed. Part of her wanted to scoff at the ridiculous sentimentality of it -- she had placed well in competitions before, obviously, but this felt different, somehow. After the crisis of confidence she had had a few weeks before Sherlock had been pushing herself, re-choreographing her solo and striving to perfect it in such a short time, and the plaque in her hands proved that she had succeeded, and that it was worth it.

The flood of dancers had thinned out slightly, but the dressing room itself was overcrowded and chaotic, full of overexcited dancers rushing around getting ready for the next performances and chattering about the results of the adjudication.

There was a small, scattered round of applause when some of the less-stressed dancers caught sight of Sherlock. She blushed and sketched an awkward little half-curtsy in acknowledgment, embarrassed and pleased and unable to wipe the grin off her face. She was more than a little bit shocked at the other dancer’s reactions -- she wasn’t especially well-loved at the studio, workaholic introvert that she was -- but it was nice to be recognized.

Sherlock packed up her bag and costume in a hurry, eager to go find Jo. She was almost certain that she’d been in the audience during adjudication, but in all of the excitement afterwards she’d lost track of her. Finally escaping the pressing crowd of dancers, Sherlock waved goodbye to Molly and headed back through the backstage area to where, hopefully, Jo would be waiting for her.

**On my way up. Meet in the lobby? -SH**

**Sure, love, see you in a minute. Congratulations!!**

The lobby was nearly as packed with people as backstage had been. It took Sherlock a few moments of staring around to find Jo, who was standing near the door holding a bouquet of wildflowers and looking pleased with herself.

Their eyes met across the room and both girls started forcing their way through the crowd. They met somewhere in the middle, and Sherlock suddenly realized that she was beaming again, that her cheeks were sore from smiling so hard. Her smile got impossibly wider as Jo crosses the last couple of feet between them and threw her arms around Sherlock’s waist, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around a bit.

“Congratulations, gorgeous! I told you, you were amazing!”

Sherlock blushed, trying to subdue her smile enough to kiss Jo. It didn’t quite work; the kiss was messy and uncoordinated, their teeth knocking together a bit, and Jo laughed into Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, sobering slightly, “I know how much this competition meant to you.” She stretched up on her toes to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, then stepped back and held out the forgotten bouquet of flowers. “Oh! Here, I got you these. It’s not much, but I wanted to get you something.

“They’re beautiful, thank you.” Sherlock buried her nose in the flowers to hide her blush as Jo’s hands settled, low and possessive, on her hips.

“ _You’re_ beautiful.” Jo tugged her closer, her hands sliding around to rest just slightly above the swell of her bum. “When do you dance again?”

“N-not until Wednesday,” Sherlock stammered, distracted by the feeling of Jo’s hands on her.

“You want to go home and, ah, _celebrate,_ then?”

Sherlock nodded, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Good.” Jo pressed a kiss to her neck, then took Sherlock’s hand and tugged her towards the exit. “Let’s go, then, gorgeous.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic for an advent challenge in December, thinking it would be a short, 500-ish-word piece. Boy, was I wrong. I've referred to this fic a couple of times as the "Monstrous fem!balletlock fic", but I had a lot of fun writing it. Thanks for being so patient with me, Em!
> 
> Come chat with me on [tumblr](http://astudyinfemlock.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> Please consider [supporting me on Patreon!](https://www.patreon.com/jamialexandra7) <3


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